Page 4 of Duke of Fire
A silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bow.
Then she spoke, very quietly, as if only to herself. “You endure rather than live, My Lord.”
He felt the words as a blow. “And what would you have me do instead?”
“Whatever you wish,” she said. “But do not pretend that it does not cost you.”
He stepped closer, the line between them narrowing to nothing. “Who are you to judge?”
“No one,” Eliza said. And then, with the kind of recklessness that came from absolute conviction, she turned and walked down the steps into the shadowed garden.
August watched her go, breath hissing between his teeth. He was not used to being left behind.
He hesitated only a second then he followed.
She did not turn when his footsteps sounded on the gravel path. She kept walking, spine straight as a blade, until the ballroom’s windows were little more than floating lanterns in the dark. Only then did she stop.
He caught up to her, standing so close that he could see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat.
“Did you come out here to challenge me, Miss Hartwell?”
She did not look away. “Did you come to chase me, My Lord?”
He laughed, but it was low and a little dangerous. “You have a remarkable talent for turning the tables.”
“Is that so terrible?” she asked.
“Not at all,” he said. “But it does make a man wonder what you are truly after.”
She drew a breath, steadying herself. “If I said I wanted honesty, would you laugh?”
“No,” he said, and this time he did not smile. “But I would warn you that you are unlikely to get it from me.”
“Why not?”
“Because honesty is the first luxury to be abandoned in survival.” His voice sounded like a man confessing a crime.
She nodded. “I see.”
He stepped closer still until the backs of her knees brushed a stone bench. “Do you?”
“Yes,” Eliza said.
He was inches away now. He meant to intimidate her, to restore the proper order of things. Instead, he found himself unsure who, exactly, was in control.
“You fascinate me, Miss Hartwell,” he said.
“And you terrify me,” she replied.
He tilted his head. “Good. That means you are smarter than most.”
She surprised him then by not stepping away. By not fainting, not pleading, not doing any of the things a lady was supposed to do when cornered by a man with a reputation.
Instead, she regarded him with clear, unyielding eyes.
“You will not ruin me, My Lord,” she said.
He smiled. “No, Miss Hartwell. But you may yet ruin me.”
